Quirrells Quiditch
by DarthDumbledore
Summary: harrys first quiditch game from the Quirrell and Snapes point of veiw. What really happened that day?


Quirrell had never liked Quidditch. Normally he tried to make himself scarce around such occasions as Cup Finals, and House Matches. He was more of a logical thinker and Quidditch went against all laws of logic that he knew. Those Bludgers gave him the willies. Quirrell was not a big fan of the brute force, aggressive magic. More of a defence person, in fact he had based his whole career on that very principal, which was quite ironic, in a way.

Yet now he found himself trudging up the steps to the Staff Quidditch stands. It was all that damn Madam Hooch's fault, her and her loudmouth boasting about the up coming game and the young new talents that would be on display. Something about the Potter boy, Quirrell hadn't paid any attention.

Yet _He_ had.

It was only in an empty hallway as Quirrell made his way back to his room that he was first actually informed of the conversation.

"There's a Quidditch game coming up" the voice began. Quirrell froze. One can never grow accustomed to a voice sounding as if somebody is right behind you, yet you can feel the empty air and you know there's nobody there. The tingling, twitchy feeling as the skin beneath his turban stretched and twisted, as a mouth that shouldn't be there choked out words. "I haven't been to a decent Quidditch game in a long time," the slow jutted tones grated like gravel through his skull. His veins were iced with adrenaline, his mind cemented in pure terror. The mouth was one thing, but the thoughts that went with it were torture.

"I- I'll make sure it happens, my Lord" Quirrell stuttered in a whisper, hating himself for it. He kept his eyes tight shut, praying that that was all it He wanted. The voice was silent. Yet as Quirrell's lungs began to breathe and his stomach unclenched, the dizziness as the adrenalin rushed through his veins abided and he took his first shaky steps he felt the back of his scalp tighten as a smile appeared on a torn and discoloured mouth. The mouth Quirrell wished wasn't there

And now he was here in the cold windy bleachers, elbow to elbow with his fellow colleagues, none who had been forced here by a Dark Lord that had taken up residence in the back of their heads.

Quirrell had never had much of a fond experience with quidditch, as a child he had the misfortune of always being picked for a team, unlike the lucky Bastards who could simply sit out and chat to each other during the game, Quirrell was always picked. They would always place him as a substitute and sit him out on the benches for most of the game. Then, as the game came to a close, the snitch was caught, the scores were tallied they would turn to Quirrell, with evil smiles and malice in their hearts. "Oh poor Quirrell" they would say "We forget to let you have a turn, why don't you come out for a few shots." The broom that nobody else wanted would be brought forward. The broom that made spastics look coordinated and snails look like lightning. "Here why don't you have a turn" the teacher would smile at the kind hearted and generous children she had for her students. The whole school would watch as he mounted his broom and steadily rose to the air. The fist few minutes were spent throwing the Quaffle back and forth, cementing their good will in the teacher's hearts. Then someone, completely and utterly by accident would release the Bludger. Only those Slimeys could make murder looks so accidental. Quirrell always saw it coming, as his broom inched in the opposite direction he wanted it to; the Bludger rocketed towards him, a dark treacherous ball of death. And as his broom whirled off in a wild uncontrollable spasm, his head feeling like it was being torn off his neck, he heard the crowd cheering "he's done it again! The quirly whirly." And then the chant would begin "quirlys whirly, quirlys whirly." There was no doubt about it, he was a crowd pleaser. The teacher always asked at them, and shook her head at Quirrell asking him what part of tight firm grip and keeping a broom under control did he not understand, they can sense when you don't know what you're doing" she warned. Oh thank you for those words of wisdom you half-brained buffoon he thought to himself, all hail the great queen of twats, as the classmates crowded in mock concern around there "poor battered friend."

As an icy blast yanked him back to present he spotted the slimy head of Snape a few rows in front of him. He bet Snape never was picked for a team, and even if he was no bludger would dare mess with the King of all things dark and treacherous.

Snape himself was eyeing up the Potter boy, oh the havoc that boys father had caused him. "Git" he muttered to himself, and then remembered he was in a public place, and gave a quick glance around him in case his small statement had been overheard. But professor sprout was wrapped top to toe in scarves and had her ears tightly sealed with pink fluffy ear muffs and professor bins was on his other side who Snape knew from experience was practically stone deaf and was asleep half the time, though he had gotten to being pretty convincing that he was otherwise. Snape might as well start singing the opera there was no way anyone besides those two next to him would have heard him over this wind. But of course Snape's immediate thoughts just then were not of perhaps an alternative career option in the arts but instead to the curses he could subtly mutter to ruin Potters cool on his first game. The plan was perfect, nothing serious you understand, just a bit of fun. But Snape could hardly suppress his glee when the possibility that potter might be wearing faded grey underpants crossed his mind. He waited till about halfway through the game, making sure that potter had built up a little confidence before he began to wreak his havoc.

Meanwhile Quirrell was trying to dreg his memory for what the actual rules of Quidditch were, as he tried to relay the events of the game to the face in the back of his head. "All right" he muttered, under the same pretense of Snape that nobody could hear him. "One of the guys has the ball that isn't the bludger, now he's passed it to, wait no, somebody else has got it, they're going the wrong way, wait what are they doing? No wait he's going the right way. I think, now he's going for the goal, but the goalie looks pretty good, wait no the bludgers taken care of the goalie, he scores! Kaloo kalay, all right now the other guy has the ball. Wait no there's somebody else doing something now, he's going for the ball, wait he's not doing anything, now he's somersaulting through the air. Boy quidditch sure has changed since I last played. Now he's back flipping through the air. What the hell is going on?"

"Ah the Grimfin Groot maneuver, Professor Grubbly Plank said from next to Professor Quirrell, perking up and showing her first sign of interest for the whole game. I haven't seen this maneuver tried outside of Ireland before, not since that time in …" the professor went off into a random tangent recalling the perks of that long ago game that was probably interrupted midgame as the hunters of the tribe returned from the mammoth hunt. Quirrell idly leaned over to professor Jory, "what exactly is that young man trying to do?" he asked timidly, trying to act as if he sort of knew what the hell was going on. Professor Jory looked at him as if he'd started a conversation with a cabbage instead of a regular human being. "someone's ****ed with his broom, any half-**** ***** who knew **** **** would be able to see that." "ah" said Quirrell "thank you for explaining that for me" sitting back in his seat twice as confused as ever. Something crawled past his leg consequently knocking him over. Quirrell didn't stop to think what it had been, Hagrid was in attendance today and who knew what he'd bought along for its first quidditch game today, sometimes it was safer not to ask. But it now gave him a good excuse to stop documenting the events of the game and become predominantly occupied with the best way to get up without getting tangled in someone's robes, tearing his own robes or tripping over again.

Meanwhile someone had set fire to Snape. Snape's day was not going as well as he might have hoped. His little evil plan had seriously backfired as one of his innocent curses had taken a turn for the worse and started to do some serious damage with a power that Snape didn't frankly know he had ever possessed. He had run through half a dozen spells trying to reverse everything he'd said but nothing seemed to work, he was now in a moral state of panic. Someone who finds out it had been him that had set the little stream of curses off. They would kick him out of Hogwarts, people would hiss at him in the streets, even people like Quirrell would refuse to be associated with him. He would be referred to as "the man who killed the boy who lived but who then died during his first quidditch match" and now his robes were on fire. For the first time in any Hogwarts quidditch game the staff stands were the most happening place in the whole arena. And in all this confusion no one heard or saw Quirrell turban slightly twitching as the mouth beneath it chanted the most disturbing of curses. Potter wouldn't die today, but a little torture and public humiliation were good for the soul. As Snape's robes were distinguished and Quirrell stood himself up and Hermione ran back to the Gryffindor stands with her little jar of fire the mouth stopped chanting, the full extent of his revenge would be carried out later, when he had managed to regain more of his previous strength.


End file.
